


Neon Vengeance

by thisisnotanotebook



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempt at Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 17:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10723551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisnotanotebook/pseuds/thisisnotanotebook
Summary: Cas has a wardrobe problem, Dean has a solution. Kind of. If traffic cone-neon booty shorts count as a solution.





	Neon Vengeance

**Author's Note:**

> a half-put together first fic, with the sole hope of making someone smile; if you like (or really don't), tell me how to improve in the comments

“Dean, may I have a private word?” Castiel, Dean’s resident angel, was looking very shifty indeed. He was cocooned in a blanket on the couch, glancing around nervously. It seemed odd to Dean, who’d just come in laden with takeout bags from the closest Chinese joint to the bunker, but then again his whole life dealt in odd. Maybe Cas had some weird supernatural flu.

“What’s goin’ on, Cas?” Dean dropped the bags and rushed over to the angel’s side. Time was usually of the essence in situations like these, so sue him for being worried. Plus, Cas looked legitimately scared.

“Where are Sam and Gabriel?”

“Parking the car… Dude, what’s up?” Dean caught Cas’ stare, then thought better of it and settled on staring at his shoulder. Apparently Cas did not get the whole distance memo; his arm shot out of the blanket nest and pulled Dean by the shoulder until they were almost on each other’s laps. Cas’ intense grip threw Dean for a loop. Then again, Cas did everything intensely. “Dean, I need your help.”

He paused, as if uncertain of his next sentence. Dean prompted him on with a shrug.

“I am not… Wearing… Pants!” There was a solemn urgency in Castiel’s voice which simply heightened the hilarity of the message. 

“Ok, you’re not wearing pants.” There was a pause, during which Dean’s brain shorted out completely. “What?!” He scrambled to his feet, and Cas had the decency to 1) look embarrassed, and 2) explain further.

“I did not know you all would return so soon! I planned,” he stuttered, “I planned to dress before you were back, but you came home early…”

“You’re not wearing pants…” Dean repeated dumbly. “Why are you not wearing pants?”

Cas paused, like a kid in fear of a scolding. “There was no one here… Normally I would, of course, but I have found that traveling in this vessel is more enjoyable without them.” He paused. “Are you angry?”

Dean was not angry. In fact, he was going through a veritable minor crisis of feeling, which he hastily hid under a much more pertinent question. “Uh, no. I’m not-Wait, what’d you want me to do about it?”

“Just-” The door opened, and Sam’s and Gabriel’s voices echoed in the hall. Cas paled slightly. “Just get some for me, quick!” He waved his hands frantically in the direction of Dean’s room.

Obediently, Dean rushed off. “I can’t believe this,” he muttered. How dare Cas be so frustratingly dorky and innocent and weird. It’s Dean’s day off. He shouldn’t have to deal with shit like this. With thoughts like these clouding his mind, Dean found himself stumbling into Sam’s room by mistake, muttering like a madman. “Stupid Cas. Stupid pants. Stupid frickin’… stupid.” That was when Dean got a great idea- for revenge. 

A glimmer of frankly evil mirth crossed Dean’s grin, and he reached to the depths of Sam’s pants drawer to withdraw a pair of lurid orange, almost child-size bike shorts. He fished them out, snickering like a twelve-year-old, and rushed back out to Cas.

“Here!” he cried, chucking the shorts at Cas and racing out before Cas could react. “I’ll stall ‘em for ya!” 

While Dean was out in the hall making as much small talk as he could muster, Castiel squirmed under the blanket in a panic. He couldn’t run out for different pants-the rest of them were practically at the door. With a mighty struggle, he pulled on the tiny shorts, quietly cursing Dean all the while.

The man in question threw open the door just as Cas stood up and let the blanket fall to the couch. Dean literally squawked with laughter at the strange sight.

The angel stood before all assembled, decked out in the strange combination of the radioactive shorts, his trench coat and tie, Dean’s gym socks, and a stormy facial expression daring anyone to laugh. 

Sam made a noise similar to a door hinge in desperate need of oiling. “Um, Cas?” he stuttered. “What…?” His customary bitchface was twisted in conflicting horror and humor.

Cas sighed, rather melodramatically, extending an exaggerated eyeroll to Dean. “I believe the human expression is ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you’.” He accentuated the last few words with persistent, exasperated air quotes that left Dean unable to keep the goofy grin from his face.

The silence grew thick as the four of them let the situation at hand marinate.

With unusual social grace, Gabriel was the first to recover. He snorted, literally snorted, with such ineffable vulgarity that all tension was shattered in the face of it. “I’ve seen weirder, baby bro.” He shuffled over to the looming kitchen table, punctuating the movement only with a shake of his head and a good-natured slap to Sam’s ass. Sam gasped in mock indignation, but followed suit, seeming to forget Cas’ inanities in favor of looking at Gabriel like a besotted puppy. Dean threw one last smug grin at Cas before joining them with the bags of takeout. He could feel Cas glaring at the back of his head the whole way there. 

The takeout was salty and unmemorable. In another life, it had been Chicken Chow Mein, but many iterations of freezing and frying and drowning in sauce had rendered it into a whole nother beast entirely. Sam made a few faces, likely deploring its vast unhealthiness, but Dean wasn’t aware of anything more than a vague texture, as caught up as he was in sniggering over the ridiculousness of Castiel. Cas was also unreactive to the taste of the food, busy as he was glaring stonily at Dean. Every so often, he would take a long, slow bite, as if that represented the long, slow revenge he wished to exact on Dean for such a heinous betrayal. Gabriel, of course, had snapped up a candy bar. 

It was too rich. Cas, the most formal and proper of the Heavenly Host, the angel who’d smote beings too terrible to name, was fuming around the bunker in fluorescent shorts. Those ridiculous shorts… They cut off just at Cas’ mid-thigh, Lycra the color of lava almost painted on to his taut muscle and curving up that perfectly round ass… 

Dean’s mouth was dry. His quiet laugh had turned into more of a cough, and he shook his head. Fuck, he thought to himself. This might have backfired.


End file.
